


until the second hand stops

by the_arc5



Series: Pocketwatch Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (BBC)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-01
Updated: 2010-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:24:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_arc5/pseuds/the_arc5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after the night before, and a few mornings and nights after that.  A sequel to <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/2ndstory/11474.html#cutid1"><i>here, our minutes grow hours</i></a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	until the second hand stops

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed and Britpicked by [](http://amaberis.livejournal.com/profile)[**amaberis**](http://amaberis.livejournal.com/) and [](http://whochick.livejournal.com/profile)[**whochick**](http://whochick.livejournal.com/), both of whom ought to be sainted at this point for all the patience they display whenever I pop up on Skype and say, "SO, I HAD THIS IDEA..." If I am coherent at all, the credit goes to them. I also want to thank all the people that commented on _here, our minutes grow hours_. I went back to answer everybody and got intimidated by how many people there were to reply to. Thank all of you for taking the time to read the fic and then say nice things about it. This sequel is for you.

The morning after is awkward.

By all rights, it shouldn’t be. John has grown accustomed to Sherlock’s version of social interaction, and spends most of his waking hours quietly and calmly weathering situations that would send other people to dark corners where they can cover their heads and rock back and forth in hysteria. Of course, all those times, he’d been wearing clothes.

And Sherlock hadn’t been drooling on him.

It catches up to John, in the unrepentant light of day, that he has not only had sex with the man that is currently leaving saliva on his bare chest, but he’s also declared love to him. And had the sentiment returned, which is blow number three to his psyche. Understanding that yes, this is Sherlock bloody Holmes who has him in a deathgrip is like scooping up his bruised, fragile, innocent little psyche with both hands and shaking it until its teeth rattle. On top of that, the drool is kind of gross.

Sherlock wakes up all at once, both eyes flying open and head jerking up to stare at John like he somehow snuck into the room in the middle of the night, threw his clothes everywhere, and wedged himself beneath Sherlock just for the hell of it.

“Morning,” John croaks, voice raspy. Sherlock frowns and studies John’s face with an alarming scrutiny for so early in the morning.

“I’ll just...” John says hesitantly, making small movements as if to leave the bed. Sherlock grabs his head immediately.

“Shh,” he orders, and keeps on staring. John tries to remind himself that he’s completely okay with this, that Sherlock has, in fact, done weirder things than stare at him first thing in the morning, and in just a few minutes he will be able to escape into the kitchen where the tea is waiting. Normally, he’d use two cups of strong coffee to convince his body to function, but right now, he needs the comforting powers of tea.

“Everything okay?” he asks when the silence stretches past uncomfortable and into creepy. Sherlock blinks, then presses his lips against John’s, quick, perfunctory, like an experiment. John shifts on the bed.

“I know you can do better than that,” he says, and a smile uncurls on Sherlock’s lips.

“Do you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, but slides down John’s body, dragging his fingers over John’s skin and sinking his mouth over John’s morning erection without preamble. John sucks in a sharp breath and fists his hands in the sheets to keep himself from grabbing Sherlock’s hair and yanking. Sherlock apparently keeps his gag reflex in a jar somewhere, because John has never been deep-throated like this in his _life_ , his cock enveloped in wet warmth, Sherlock’s long fingers stroking over his thighs, his hips, his belly. His hips jerk up instinctively, and Sherlock shoves him back against the bed, and for some reason that breaks him, the ungentle force of Sherlock’s hands pinning him down while his clever mouth sucks and swallows without so much as a falter of rhythm.

Then, because this is John’s life, Sherlock pulls off and _purrs_ , a deep, rumbling noise in the back of his throat while his right hand drops down to bring himself off in half a dozen strokes. John shudders when Sherlock comes, watching his eyes shut for just a few seconds, his pale body arched away from the mattress in a tense line before he slumps against John’s thigh. John slowly remembers what breathing feels like.

“Um,” he says, because he has to say something. Sherlock flaps a hand at him.

“If you make breakfast, I want some,” Sherlock tells him, voice muffled by sheet. “Otherwise, I’m going back to sleep.”

John is used to dropping food in front of Sherlock and glaring until he eats, and forcing him to lie down when he looks ready to collapse from exhaustion. This sudden inclination to food and sleep makes John frown at the dark, curly head pressed against his thigh, trying to work out when, exactly, he entered the twilight zone. Then it occurs to him that Sherlock is also inclined toward sex with him, and apparently sex makes him sleepy and hungry.

“My cock is a weapon,” he says aloud, and immediately feels stupid for having said it. Fortunately, Sherlock is already asleep. John gently disentangles himself and walks into the bathroom for a shower. In about an hour, Sherlock wakes up, eats half a piece of toast, and drinks a cup of coffee, complaining loudly about a pathetically obvious string of robberies in the West End. John rolls his eyes at the theatrics and forgets to treat Sherlock any differently than he always has. At least, he forgets until Sherlock looks at him, a brief glance that’s both hungry and shy, and John walks over to press a kiss to his mouth.

“All right?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“Better,” John answers. Awkward or not, it’s true.

***

No one can disapprove because no one knows. At first. Then there is a frustrating three hours in which Mycroft pseudo-kidnaps John and John comes back and slams the door and jerks Sherlock up by the lapels and kisses him viciously.

“You’re not an experiment,” he says angrily, intently. “You’re not a phase, you’re not a crisis, and for god’s sake, I’m not going to leave you!”

He drops Sherlock back into his chair and stalks into his bedroom to stare at his computer screen for a while. Sherlock leaves him to it, digging out his phone to text, _that was unnecessary_ and, after a moment’s thought, _thank you._

Then there is a terrifying three hours when Mrs. Hudson invites herself in for tea, and John comes back to Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the sofa, staring at the carpet.

“I know I’m not...” he says, and hesitates. “I’m...”

John waits patiently, holding the shopping, sensing that this is important. Sherlock sighs and raises his eyes.

“I won’t keep body parts in the refrigerator any more,” he says, sounding contrite, and John figures it’s about the truest vow of commitment he can expect.

It’s some time later when Lestrade gets confirmation of what he suspected all along, after the three hours he spends sitting with John in a hospital. He watches John sit down beside Sherlock’s bed, watches Sherlock’s long, elegant fingers curl around John’s, sees John quietly go to pieces. He hears Sherlock say, as gentle as he’s ever heard, “It’s all right.” He hears John say, “No, it really isn’t.” He slips outside then. Catching Sherlock’s would-be murderer should be congratulations enough.

***

John has that determined set about his jaw, which is either very bad news or very good news, depending on your perspective. Sherlock has the benefit of both perspectives, as he lacks neither imagination nor experience on both ends of the spectrum. He is also in the possession of just enough self-preservation to be both alarmed and anticipatory.

The facts are these:

John is not happy. It’s not anger; John flexes his hand when he’s angry, takes deliberate, slow breaths through his nose, stares holes into walls and carpets. It’s not disappointment; John paces when he’s disappointed, leaves the flat, makes the back of Sherlock’s neck burn unpleasantly in a response he can’t control. It’s not pain; Sherlock knows every way John’s movements slow and hitch when his shoulder bothers him or his leg aches. Not any of the usual troubles, then.

If it’s not the usual trouble, then John won’t resort to passive-aggressive revenge tactics or shouting, the back of Sherlock’s neck won’t tingle that way, and John won’t spend the night lying stiffly on his back while Sherlock lies uselessly beside him, willing his body to put off heat and being angry that this is one problem he can’t solve.

That set of jaw, though, that means John is steeling himself for something unpleasant. The way he’s stalking up to the sofa, that means he’s steeling himself for something unpleasant involving Sherlock. It’s possible, though unlikely, that John will start a fight; he’s not angry, not disappointed. He’s...determined. Going to try to convince Sherlock to do something, then. These days, John has discovered that whatever his issues of personal self-esteem, the view of his arse does wonders for Sherlock’s motivation.

In short, John is unhappy, which is a bit not good, but he might start shedding clothes soon, which is a bit very good.

“You haven’t slept.”

Oh, that.

“No. There was work to do.”

“Yes, Sherlock, I was there. Three bodies. Anderson tried to flap his hands at me. Was handcuffing him to the radiator really necessary?”

“It wasn’t operational,” Sherlock says defensively. “And there was a hairpin on the floor well within his reach.”

“He’s a forensics man. I don’t think he knows how to pick a set of handcuffs.”

“He should learn.”

“Your dedication to the continued education of the force is an inspiration to us all. The case is over, Sherlock. It’s time to sleep.”

“I...”

“You’re not doing anything, you’re just lying there, and yes, I know that’s your thinking pose, but there’s nothing on right now that’s so important it can’t wait until morning. Bed. Now. No, actually, shower first. Then bed.”

Sherlock tilts his head back to look up at John. The jaw is still set, but his eyes are soft.

“Now?” John suggests pointedly.

“I can sleep here,” Sherlock points out. He does, sometimes, when he needs room to think or exhaustion catches up with him or he can’t stand being useless while John hurts. He tried to sleep here once when they’d had a row, and John had come out of his room with a blanket and awkwardly arranged himself on top of Sherlock. The sofa isn’t made to accommodate two men lying down, not comfortably, anyway, and they’d gone back to bed in the end, and the experiment has never been repeated. Not going anywhere, John had promised, and he meant it, rows and disappointment and wounded body notwithstanding, and it had only taken once for Sherlock to understand. Now, John looks exasperated and amused at once.

“You could,” he agrees. “But then I wouldn’t tuck you in.”

 _Worry_ , Sherlock realizes abruptly. The vague unhappiness, the determination, it’s because John is _worried_ about him. That part is always surprising.

“But then I wouldn’t have to shower,” he counters. John crosses his arms.

“Yes, you do. It’s been three days. You’re unsanitary. Up.”

“You can’t...” Sherlock snaps his mouth closed against the rest of that sentence, as it more than borders on the childish and it occurs to him he’s fighting for something he doesn’t really want anyway. He changes tacks.

“Will you get in with me?” he purrs. John likes his voice. One of these days, Sherlock is going to attempt to bring John off just by _talking_. Possibly over the phone, though he would run the risk of John hanging up on him, but the odds on that are fairly slim, John has something approaching a kink for the risk of discovery, and...

“No.”

Sherlock’s head comes off the sofa to track John’s progress across the floor in the entirely wrong direction.

“Why not?”

“Because the idea is to get you to bathe, not to get you to suck me off in the shower.”

“You _like_ it when I suck you off in the shower.”

“True,” John allows. “But I plan on sleeping with you later, which is a much more pleasant experience when you don’t smell like three-day-old curry.”

“I do not smell like curry. There hasn’t been any curry in nine days, because the last time we had any we were interrupted by that dismemberment case and it’s put you off, though you’re beginning to crave it again and we’ll probably have some tomorrow night or the night after. And I fail to see how one goal precludes the other.”

“It does when one party, namely you, has a one-track mind. It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy the experience, mind, but the reason we’re in this mess is because you’ve been too preoccupied to bathe, and if I get in with you, you’ll once again be too preoccupied to bathe, and you will continue to smell like three-day-old curry. Which you do.”

“I do not.”

“Get in the shower or I lock you out of the bedroom. Your choice.”

It isn’t, really, because John knows just as well as Sherlock does that picking the pathetic lock on the bedroom door is so easy even Anderson could do it. But that’s the way the game is played: John makes silly threats and crosses his arms and pretends like it’s all the same to him, _really_ , but Sherlock knows better, knows he’ll have to endure John’s arm curled around him tonight, and a surfeit of tea and all his favorite take-away tomorrow, and endure seems like the wrong verb, especially since there’s a good chance John will have a lie-in in an effort to keep him in bed longer. It will probably work. John is very warm and pliable of a morning. Still, he sighs dramatically for the look of the thing. John rolls his eyes and still looks relieved.

“If you’re going to be childish about it,” Sherlock says archly, and turns toward the bathroom with movements that may or may not be comparable to a flounce. He can hear John muttering behind him, and counts it as a victory.

The water is hot and soothing to muscles he hadn’t realized were sore, and John may have a point about sanitation, especially when it comes to his hair. He washes it twice, scrubs himself down briskly, then steps out of the shower and dries. He doesn’t bother with clothing after, just pads upstairs through the darkened flat to where John is already in bed. He crawls in without preamble, and John laughs.

“Is this a hint?” he asks, and Sherlock kicks at him.

“I was promised a tucking in,” he says, and John rolls onto his side to kiss him, long and deep. Exhaustion catches up to him all at once, and as John moves away, he sags into the mattress. John pulls back, studies him for a moment, and shakes his head.

“Honestly,” he says, and doesn’t finish the thought. Instead, he hauls Sherlock close to him and snaps off the bedside light. Sherlock squirms until he finds a comfortable position.

“You didn’t take a shower tonight,” he says, low and rumbling, and John shifts beneath him.

“What?”

“You didn’t take a shower,” Sherlock repeats. “You should have. I had to.”

“You smelled...”

“Like curry, yes, we discussed it. But you should. In the morning.”

“Should I?” John asks, sounding amused instead of worried. Sherlock smiles.

“Yes, you should. And you should let me in with you.”

John laughs again, and Sherlock can feel the tension dissolve from his body, the muscles relaxing beneath his head. “One-track mind.”

“You’ve never complained,” Sherlock points out, and is asleep before John can answer.

***

“You seem...happier,” Sarah says, and grins at him over the edge of her mug. John feels himself blush just a little and is immediately irritated at himself.

“Do I?” he says, and it comes out grumpy. Sarah laughs.

“I’d be, too, I think. He’s a madman, sure, but he is gorgeous.”

John blinks. “This is...not the conversation I thought we’d be having.”

“Oh, we can go back to discussing kidney infections, if you’re that desperate to hear about my work, but I’d rather hear about yours. What’s all this about a Greek interpreter?”

So he leans back in his chair and tells her the story, remembering the bits that didn’t get put into the blog. She laughs and looks alarmed in all the right places, and just as they’re standing to leave, she puts her hand on his arm.

“Are you?” she asks. “Happy?”

John stops for a minute, considering the story he’s just told, all the petty fights and near misses and sheer insanity he puts up with, _participates in_ , nearly every day. He smiles at her.

“Yeah. I am.”

***

Not all cases end this way. If they did, the furniture probably wouldn’t last. Certainly, the wallpaper wouldn’t.

The ride home was tense and silent, John preternaturally relaxed, Sherlock wound tight as a spring beginning to snap. His index finger had tapped a rhythm on his knee, only one finger, but enough to be telling. John’s legs had fallen apart by an inch and Sherlock had taken a breath through his nose that wasn’t quite silent. They’d reached Baker Street, John lingering behind to pay the cabbie while Sherlock swept inside, and the cabbie had said in a commiserating sort of way, “Hope you two work it out, mate.”

John had given him a thin smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He’d taken one fortifying breath before stepping inside.

He’s just fast enough to close the door before Sherlock leaps on him, slamming him against the wall and devouring his mouth, sharp and wet and hot, tearing away from John’s mouth to suck at his jaw, his neck, trying to taste all of him at once. John gives as good as he gets, yanking off that perpetual scarf to get at the long lines of throat beneath. They can’t stay here, will be caught in a matter of moments if they try to take time to do more than kiss, and both of them have more affection for Mrs. Hudson than to wantonly couple at the foot of her stairs. Not that the idea is completely lacking in appeal, but still. Sherlock’s hands find both of John’s and squeeze once, hard, before they separate and thunder up the seventeen steps to their flat.

Inside, Sherlock falls against the wall and lets John tear at his coat, his jacket, and the shirt underneath. He closes his eyes and John can feel him taking in deep breaths, smelling, most like. Sherlock uses _all_ of his senses _all_ of the time, and can spend hours exploring John’s body in increments, tasting, touching, smelling, seeing, laying his head flat against John’s chest just to hear him breathing. There’s not time for that now, though, not with adrenaline pulsing through their blood like electric shocks. John only has a few seconds for the clothes, and then it’s him up against the wall, getting snogged within an inch of his life while Sherlock makes quick work of John’s jumper and starts in on his trousers. He pushes them open and John arches into his touch with a wrecked kind of gasp.

A low, muffled groan escapes Sherlock’s lips before he falls forward, pressing their bare skin together with one arm braced against the wall. There isn’t time for finesse, for gentleness, for anything but the rough pull of Sherlock’s hand around them both. John digs his fingers into the skin of Sherlock’s back and feels the pull of muscles, puts his mouth to the hollow of Sherlock’s throat and tastes the bitter tang of his sweat. His hips stutter, Sherlock’s grip flirting with the edge of pain, and suddenly Sherlock is keening and coming over his own fist. John chokes into Sherlock’s throat and follows.

“Oh god,” Sherlock says, his voice muffled against John’s hair. John laughs shakily.

“Bed. Now,” John commands, his legs already weakening with the comedown. Sherlock obligingly wraps his arm around John’s waist and they stagger into Sherlock’s bedroom, which is much less clean than John’s, but conveniently closer. They half-heartedly clean off with their rumpled clothes and flop onto the mattress, Sherlock stretching out with a sigh, John punching a pillow into a better position behind his head.

“Thought they had us there, for a minute,” John says, and Sherlock huffs a laugh.

“Us?” he says, and rolls over to tuck himself against John’s body. John obligingly wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Hardly.”

***

Sherlock hates the dark. Always has, ever since he was a little boy. He doesn’t like being blind, not being able to tell exactly what’s in front of him. It’s not fear, exactly; he’s just made a living of looking, and it’s a hard habit to indulge when he can’t _see_. Sometimes, he forces himself to operate in pitch blackness, just so the aversion doesn’t become a crippling weakness. He can’t afford to lose himself just because the lights go out.

It’s not completely dark, not with the streetlight’s hazy orange glow filtering through the closed curtains, but it’s dark enough. He can make out John’s outline, but not his features. One arm is thrown up over his head, the other tucked warm between their bodies. Sherlock closes his eyes; he can feel John’s knuckles brushing his thigh, a tiny brush of skin on skin. John’s breath is slow, even, and deep, but Sherlock moves carefully anyway, shifting in increments so the mattress won’t give him away. He gets as close as he dares without waking John up, then tilts his face into John’s shoulder and breathes. John smells cool and clean, the scent of his soap a sharp undercurrent beneath the lighter, softer scent that’s all his. Sherlock’s nose just brushes John’s skin and he can almost taste the smell, his sense-memory triggered to think _home_ and _safe_ and _wanted_. He can catch the ghost of this on John’s veritable legion of jumpers, but it’s more concentrated, headier straight from his body, tinged with the promise of sex and the warmth of closeness.

Self-control Sherlock has in spades, but his stores are not unlimited; he opens his mouth and very, very softly touches his lips to John’s bare shoulder, letting the very tip of his tongue catch John’s taste. It’s the merest suggestion of salt, nothing more. Sherlock’s breath fans out over the point of contact and he inhales again, moving just a bit closer to John’s neck. He takes care, moving slowly, always slowly, his kisses only just breaking the barrier of space between them. He makes it to the hollow of John’s throat before John wakes up, and even then, it’s probably the tickle of Sherlock’s hair that does it. John jerks a bit, but Sherlock is ready; he moves up, pressing his chest against John’s side, rubbing his thumbs in circles over John’s shoulders. John immediately relaxes, and Sherlock suckles the side of his neck by way of reward. His hands slide up to smooth over John’s face, tracing the arches of his eyebrows and the lines of his jaw, his fingers remembering all the angles he knows already. John tilts his face into the touch, and Sherlock finds his lips on the first try, tasting his mouth little by little.

John makes a soft noise, something between a groan and a breath, and Sherlock catches it in his mouth. He tells himself he’s practicing, collecting data, but these are things he already knows: the faint rasp of John’s stubble as it catches on his lips; the warm, rich taste of John’s scent just behind his ear; the shuddering exhale John makes, not quite silent, when Sherlock runs his hand down his chest in one broad sweep. These are things he’s collected in the dark, things he can believe in without seeing. He can roll over, on top of John now, and kiss him wet and open-mouthed without even the weak light of the streetlights to guide him. He can rock them together, sweet and slow, while John’s sleep-warm hands draw lazy patterns over his back. There’s no hurry, no urgency, just the familiar slide of their skin together, the steady weight of John’s touch, the lax heat of John’s mouth. Sherlock tips his head back and shivers at the end, keeping his eyes closed tight. He doesn’t need to see this, has it imprinted on his brain in bright light; instead, he rocks forward just a little more and concentrates on feeling John’s hands tighten abruptly, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s hips while his breath comes out in a faint, “ahh.” Then his arms fall open, willing should Sherlock decide he wants to sleep close tonight.

He does.

He curls into John’s side, wraps an arm around him, and thinks a little more kindly of the dark.

***

They don’t touch outside the flat.

That’s ridiculous. Of course they touch outside the flat. Sherlock makes unreasonable demands for John to fetch things from his own damned pockets, John pulls Sherlock back from edges he leans too far over, there are conversations in nudged elbows and bumped shoulders. But they don’t _touch_ , not ever. They don’t hold hands, there are no stolen kisses in alleys, they don’t even sit close together in cabs. (Once, only once, John had fallen asleep on the train and woken up on Sherlock’s shoulder. It had been the only memorable thing about Cardiff. John hadn’t put it in his blog.)

John doesn’t mind; actually, he likes it better this way. He likes looking at Sherlock from safe and proper distances, knowing that Sherlock is a kind of secret for him to keep. Sherlock stands apart from him, firing off deductions like a Gatling, and this morning, he’d stood behind John, warm and quiet, face buried in the nape of John’s neck while the kettle boiled. Sherlock hands him stacks of files and gives him marching orders with a tone that makes Lestrade grimace in sympathy, but John takes them and goes, because he knows what Sherlock sounds like when he begs _more, please, more, I want..._ John doesn’t need to hold Sherlock’s hands while they walk because he knows them by heart, how they handle sonatas and poison and him. Sherlock loves to touch, loves to test, to tease, loves to reassure himself of John’s presence with his fingertips. He’s waited for Sherlock’s fascination with him to fade, but it hasn’t; Sherlock is always brushing against him, with purpose and without, along his neck and wrists, skimming along the hem of his jumpers, brushing the contours of his face. John knows how much Sherlock needs to see and feel and hear and taste things for himself; the multitude of abandoned experiments that constitute most of their kitchen can testify to that. But John seems to be one experiment that Sherlock never tires of, something he never knows enough about. John doesn’t know how, but it makes him happy all the same.

They don’t touch outside the flat, and John thinks nobody would ever guess that after days like today, he stretches out on their sofa with a sigh of contentment and waits. It isn’t long before Sherlock is sprawled over him, relaxed and boneless with John’s hand in his hair, murmuring things John knows already while they touch and touch and touch.


End file.
